


Eyes On Me

by avet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 13:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8535382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avet/pseuds/avet
Summary: Heady was the scent of terror - Harry barely blinked as he pointed a steady hand at Lily Evans, uttering two damnable words: "Avada Kedavra."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wordcount: 1400+  
> Soundtrack: Licht und Schatten - Tokyo Ghoul, Jane's Lament.
> 
> I honestly have no idea where this is going.. so be prepared for anything.

_**Eyes On Me** _

_the world is broken and halos fail to glisten_

* * *

**1.**

"Get up."

He opened his eyes and stared at the figure towering above him.

He got up, stumbling over the hem of his blood-spattered robes, before righting himself with an unsteady hand on the wall.

Corpses laid under his feet, torn appendages thrown all over the wide hall, a waterfall of blood dripped from the chandelier, he did not look up to follow the trail.

The air was clotted, thick and nauseatingly full of the release of bodily fluids – the carnage around him was bizarrely, disgustingly beautiful.

"Eyes on me, _champion_." The title was hauntingly familiar.

He thinks that he might once look at death in the eyes, unafraid. Yet now he can barely keep his head up, shame burning in his blood and clouding his eyes.

"I am no champion," he muttered, absently wiping a wet hand on his robes, he doesn't want to know what is the substance on it.

"You were, you are and you will be." Said the once-proud woman coolly, shoulders tense and lines deeply drawn over her smudged face – she aged terribly, her brittle grey hair a mockery of formerly silky dark locks, eyes once aloof and icy now blazing with unquenched rage.

Oh, the fury of a mother is one like no other.

"Get up, there is still one thing you have to do before you off yourself," she said callously, wand moving to pave a path for them through the scattered bodies of their friends, allies and enemies.

"I'm bloody tired," he said faintly, knowing that there's no escaping the furious gaze.

"Well, you will get plenty of rest in the afterlife," she snapped. "Finish what you are owed."

He stood frozen, staring blankly at her bowed spine. She turned and met his gaze. Her hands were shaking.

"And I always do," he said softly.

Did he not?

He always did. Not that it mattered now.

He could see the tears she refused to release - stubborn to the end, like her son. Or was her son like her?

Ah well, he can't ask him; the dead can't speak after all.

Unless he called him through the Stone, but he would rather not face his demons. Not now.

( _What was his boggart again? the Dementors, the rotting Inferi wearing the faces of his friends, the mutilated and starved bodies of Hogwarts' children, or the eternally young corpse of her son? He has to check again to know_ )

He dragged his feet following the swift snap of her skirts; she refused to wear sensible and practical dragonhide pants like all the others, she claimed that she was a woman from the Old Days, and she will continue to wear what she wore then – declared that her competence was not determined by a piece of fabric.

Eloquent, she was. Now he can plainly see the resemblance between her and her batty sister – sanity barely clinging through unfinished quest of vengeance.

But who was he to judge, they all got a few screws loose.

Tendrils of the sun's final rays splashed against the corridors, a picture of hazy, dreamlike world of warm oranges, yellows and soft reds. From a hole blasted in the wall, figures draped in muted colors walked sluggishly over the plains, bowing over scattered bodies – searching for survivors. He doubted there's any.

He halted to stare dazedly at the setting sun, almost touching the scorched plains of Hogwarts, deceptive scenery of a day's concluded serenity.

He took a long, deep breath, turned his back against the scene and went back to following the woman.

Through charred and crumpling halls, they finally stopped before a semi-unsoiled room, with a massive multilayered array painstakingly blood-painted on its floor.

He wondered whose blood she meticulously collected – his, hers or their fallen foes.

She briskly crossed the room to stand on the first drawn array, and spun to give him an expectant look.

He hesitated. "The others?"

Her face twitched, mouth set in a thin line. "No one is left."

Ah.

.

.

.

.

.

It smarts.

The pain surprised him, he thought that he'd long became numb.

He nodded his head and stepped into the last array, deep into the room. He turned to stare at the last of his allies in the long, far _too long,_ war and found her wand leveled at his heart.

"Do you, Harry James Potter - the Last Potter, Champion of Magic, Master of Death, pay the debt you owe me, Narcissa Druella Malfoy née Black?"

The array flared to life. Golden and horrendous, calling for his magic and blood.

The foulest of magickes used in the halls that once housed the brightest of magical generations. The Founders must be rolling in their graves, their sanctuary defiled and sullied.

Well, they were not here, were they?

"I do." He simply replied.

"Then by the right of the Life that is owed, the Magic that is sworn by and the Blood that was freely offered and justly taken, I demand what is owed."

The last he saw before the searing, burning light swallowed him was the sight of her lifeless body collapsing on the floor, and Narcissa Malfoy – dubbed the Lady Terror - was no more.

Harry Potter's world was, likewise, no more.

**.**

**.**

* * *

**2.**

A Muggle once said that eternity is said not to be an extension of time but an absence of time, and he was right.

For the sake of whatever sanity he had left, he never counted. For there was no measure of anything to be counted – no hours, days and no years.

Simply silence. And a vast, endless white space filled with swirling pale kaleidoscopes. And he knew - oddly enough - that those were merely incomplete universes still yet unborn.

After an eternity - a flicker of an ancient being's gaze, or a mere moment of a mortal's life - he woke up.

He was laying on hard ground, wet and slippery, and his nose was instantly assaulted by the smell of waste – long expired leftovers, the familiar unpleasant odor of piss, bile and feces.

He dragged his aching bones up, and was met by wide brown eyes.

The child quickly scrambled off and desperately clutched something to his raggedly clothed chest. He wordlessly held his hand, and the boy – of six or seven years – gazed stubbornly back at him.

He lifted his eyebrow, and wiggled his fingers. The wand instantly slipped from grimy fingers to his own. The boy's eyes flew wider and he gasped, displaying a row of decayed teeth.

The absence of paralyzing fear in his eyes was stunning.

"You a wiza'd?" he breathed. Harry felt his lip turning up; his weakness for kids widely known and was grotesquely exploited more than once.

"Yes, I am."

"Thas wicked!" The boy scooted closer, a fresh display of trust their kind's kids learnt the hard way to never show. "'M names Dee, whas you's?"

He hesitantly raised his hand and put it on the mob of matted hair, softly patting it. "Nice to meet you, Dee. My name is Harry." He replied seriously.

The boy giggled. "You's funny."

They stayed still for a while, and he allowed the boy the gawk at him to his little heart's content. But sadly it had to end; he has to know where and when he landed.

So with slight reluctance he withdrew his hand, rummaged inside his bottomless pockets and got hold of a few candies and a bagful of undoubtedly half-stale Bertie Botts. The boy took them with absolute delight, happiness unreservedly shining through his eyes.

The way _theirs_ were never allowed to.

His fingers scraped the wall beside him as he slowly rose on unsteady legs, his vision blurring slightly before clearing to show him the cramped corner he was in, the distant light a few meters away made it obvious that it was a cloudy midday in wherever he was.

"Tempus," he murmured.

_12:27 PM. Tuesday, June 7, 1976._

It looks like Lady Malfoy sent him way back than intended. Well, better to be done with it sooner than later.

Ten years ago, around this time of the year, he was nervously waiting for the results of his OWLs and seething at the whole stupidity of the Wizarding world, having to deal with _Headmistress_ Umbridge, full of anger and righteous indignation, snapping at every corner.

Ah, the misery of hormonal teenagers.

He shook his head, charmed his robes to dry – though he really needs to wash, he smells positively rank – and with a halfhearted farewell to the distracted street boy, he stepped out from the shadowed alley.

Well, apparently he was in London.

An unbroken, unscathed London.

Brilliant.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of you readers may have noticed an annoying habit of mine- never updating as promised. Well, there may have been some worthy excuses or simply a lack of inspiration, but hopefully this project won't face that. I'll try to update on the 12th and 22nd of every month, unless notified otherwise. Oh, and the quote below the title is from Muse's Neutron Star Collision (Love Is Forever).
> 
> Love,
> 
> Abby.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: really short chapter.

**Eyes On Me**

_the ceremony of innocence is drowned_ **  
**

* * *

**3.**

The man standing before him in the misty mirror was unfamiliar.

His eyes cynically stripped him bare and laid down his flaws.

Harry swept his wet hair back and dragged his fingers through the knots – relishing the sensation of cool water dripping down his exposed neck to his sore back – and hazily thought that it's been too long since he had the chance to take an unhurried, thorough shower.

Out of necessity, shortage of time, and lack of resources – for essential activities such as eating and showering were something they could no longer afford to do leisurely - they made do with overusing cleansing charms that chafed skin and reproduced sustenance in excessive means to the point they almost forgot what 'flavor' was. The weak-willed refused to consume the staled food and went to battles starved and malnourished. They never returned.

So it was with a soft groan of bliss that he sank in the tub, and almost considered the thought of staying under until the last breath departed his battered body.

 _Almost_.

He'd cut the piece of bread that arrived with the room service into even smaller bits and dipped them one by one into a small bottle of honey, carefully measured each sip of milk even when he only wanted to fall down on the meager, but _flavored,_ meal like a starved man – which, to be perfectly honest, he is – but held himself back.

Now he stands before the grimy mirror and stares.

His disheveled hair – after a long period of neglect – had grown to fall down in uneven cascades over his taut shoulders and rest below the blades, his face scruffy with weeks' worth of unshaved fuzz, and wounds untended, left to bleed and ooze pus scattered all over his body.

What a pathetic reflection.

He sighed, summoned his wand from the soiled robes and began the tedious task of cleaning up.

The muggles of this time were awfully trusting – despite this being a dingy room in a shady corner, but still – the motel's manager did not ask unnecessary questions when he slid an envelope, encouraging him to remain silent about his alarming appearance, over the sorry excuse of a reception desk.

In his era, muggles learnt the hard way how to deal with the majority of the Wizarding kind - shoot first and ask later.

He tided up the mess after him, vanished the bloodied rags and washed off the crimson trails in the bath, unbolted the window to the air the tiny room, and then hesitantly approached the bed pushed into the corner.

It's been forty-six hours since he last managed to catch three hours of restless sleep.

He shook his head, summoned the potions' carrier and selected a Sleeping Draught, he chugged the content of the vial, barely managed to wave the carrier back before he instantly fell unconscious on the bed.

.

.

* * *

 

**4.**

Icy toes skimmed his bared leg, trailed along his shin until they reached his ankle. His face twitched, before he buried his head in the inflated pillow with a groan.

A soft chuckle tickled his ear, and elongated fingers buried themselves in his nest of a hair, nails pleasantly scratching at his scalp.

"'od off," he grumbled, but did not shake the fingers off.

"That's not a nice thing to say, Potter."

Harry turned his head and glared through the slit of his eyes at the drawl.

Incoming breeze softly parted the snowy curtains, permitting sunlight to creep in the room. Amused greys stared back at him, the hazy scenery behind him forming a halo of light around his hair – akin to a holy idol.

He must have said it out loud, for his eyes thawed in fondness.

"Then you should worship me," the insolent slant of his swollen lips tempted him, and he surged from the covers to gladly comply.

.

.

.

.

.

Harry opened his eyes.

He resolutely refused to acknowledge the stickiness of his face.

After a shuddering breath – he slowly left the cramped bed and stretched, popping his bones with satisfying cracks.

There was a rustle near the door, and he turned to see a newspaper slid from underneath the gap. He summoned it while sitting gingerly on a squeaky chair, what light could penetrate the shabby curtains fell on the cover, allowing him to read with semi-clarity.

 _Huge Heat Wave Is Approaching,_ said the headline on a Daily Mail paper. Harry blinked incomprehensibly at it, before absentmindedly skimming through the pages. In the current month of June, Britain and Iceland reached the end of the Cod War, a company called the British Leyland launches its innovative new Rover SD1, whatever what was that. Possibly a new type of vehicle?

A suspected republican bombing kills two Protestant civilians in a pub, the Ulster Volunteer Force kill five civilians in a gun and bomb attack at the Chlorane Bar, North Ireland. Bobby Hackett, jazz cornetist/orchestra leader (Air time '57), dies at 61… and many other noteworthy and insignificant things.

No mentions of inexplicable deaths or sudden disappearances. Either someone was deliberately covering the wide massacres happening due to Voldemort's crusade against the muggles and muggleborns, or the Dark Lord was cautious – which was unlikely – or… it was disguised as something else as to not cause widespread panic for the public.

He went back to trifling through the papers, with more regard to details.

He found them. Occurring mine falls, landslides, vicious viruses, gas explosions, and other seemingly 'natural' causes.

Because everyone accepted natural deaths, unfortunate deaths, but natural nonetheless and thus weren't questioned, nor were they ever doubted.

Someone at the Ministry of Magic was doing their job splendidly.

He threw the paper away in disgust.

"Tempus,"

_09:14 AM. Wednesday, June 8, 1976._

Harry sighed and dragged himself up.

Time to visit Diagon Alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: No update next month. I know, I know, I seemingly can't keep a promise or fixed updates, but the upcoming weeks will be packed with due papers, midterms and whatnots - so I really won't have enough time to write.  
> Also, quote under title is from Yeats' Second Coming.
> 
> See you next year... kidding. Or not.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning(s): mention of slash, violence?, dunno man im barely awake 
> 
> AN: Sorry about the delay, not gonna give excuses because its 1 am and my eyes are barely open and I didn't proofread this so we're just gonna accept that there's no such thing as frequent updates in my dictionary.  

 

**Eyes On Me**

_cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs_

* * *

 

**5.**

The 70's were the glorious days for the Dark Lord and his believers. It was the highest peak of their cause, their 'pure' and 'just' cause: to fight for the purging of Wizarding world, against the vile corruption of the muggles and their gets.

Apprehension, fear and uncertainty were apparent in the atmosphere of Diagon Alley, which was almost deserted, par for the occasional weary Aurors and harried residents in quest for emergency supplies.

And the confident ones. Those who were so assured of their security despite the uncertain times, those who served both or either or neither sides in the war.

Purebloods.

They walked through the alley with heads held high, noses almost burying themselves in the clouds, in contrast to those who scurried in the corners for fear of drawing unwanted attention.

He eyed them coolly, from underneath a wide hood. Some of them were familiar enough, while others he identified by structure and coloring. Others were completely unfamiliar, and they were undoubtedly eliminated in the future.

He ducked inside an open shop, and met the suspicious eyes of the owner while lowering his hood back. "Morning, do you happen to have the Prophet?"

"Aye, what of it?" his fingers were white around his tanned wand.

"I would like to buy it from you, I recently arrived in the continent and would like to know its recent affairs..."

"No subscriptions?" the middle-aged man grunted, relaxing slightly. But he admirably did not unclench his fingers from his wand.

"Ah, I never needed it before, and the post is currently closed.."

The wizard snorted. "Old Martin got quite the scare yesterday – he went running home."

Harry was sure the 'scare' was a couple of Death Eaters dropping on him unceremoniously, but he nodded his head in bemusement. "So, about the paper.."

"I can lend ye mine, but it'll cost ye more."

"That won't be a problem, thank you."

After he rummaged inside his pockets for a couple of Sickles, an alarmingly high cost for a mere Prophet, but he gathers that beggars can't be picky… or something like that.

 ** _Dark Lord Strikes Again,_** screamed the headline. "Cheerful," he dryly remarked.

The old man snorted rather strongly that Harry almost saw mucus escape his nostrils.

"Aye, that bugger still at large, may Merlin damn him," he muttered angrily.

Despite his bold comment, Harry saw him glance furtively at the door. He nodded slowly, "As you say, but I gather Merlin won't be able to damn every abomination. Sometimes we ourselves must unite to banish it for good."

He left the dingy shop with the old man still blinking incomprehensibly at him.

Merlin. The Ministry. Dumbledore. The Boy Who Lived...

The wizarding world is always waiting for saviors to save them. The never think that it's their own damn problem and they're the ones responsible for removing it, not poor hapless teenagers who were conditioned to spring face-first into the first hint of danger.

Hood covering his face once again, he clinched the paper in his hand and strode briskly to the Leaky Caldron.

He almost reached the dingy inn when something appeared in his peripheral vision, a sudden intrusion of colors in the bleak alley.

A hearty laugh and a quiet giggle penetrated the stilted atmosphere, and he helplessly turned his head to look at the daring elderly couple who apparently Apparated into a wall.

"It looks like you're losing your touch, my dear."

"Hush, darling, it's the damn walls, they're everywhere."

"The poor walls…"

His heart almost stopped, and he had to blink repeatedly to clear his blurry sight.

Harry never had the opportunity to properly trace his roots – to know his family. But he still had the hazy memory of the faces he saw once in the Mirror of Erised. And the odd tales he collected through his years in brief association with those who knew his family.

So it was given that he instantly knew who the couple were.

Fleamont and Euphemia Potter.

He - for a brief moment, stilled. Watched with starved eyes, the world around him muted, par their gentle, mundane chatter.

Unsurprisingly, his grandfather – _his grandfather!_ – noticed his unsubtle gaze, and turned keen eyes at his direction. He nodded warily, right hand – undoubtedly armed - vaguely angled towards Harry, while the other steered his wife slightly behind him.

Harry sluggishly nodded back, and with startling difficulty, he bypassed them.

Mind whirring, he rapidly recounted the significant events forthcoming, and instantly knew when he should fulfill his duty.

1976 was the year the Potters took in Sirius Black.

James Potter and Lily Evans won't be married until 1978.

 _Perfect_.

.

.

* * *

**6.**

It all began – Harry supposes – when Lily Potter née Evans dabbled in blood magic.

Not when Tom Riddle was born, nor was it when he created his first Horcrux, or unleashed terror on the Wizarding world.

Lily – and she was Lily, not _mum_ , because it was… simpler for him – was the unforeseen anomaly that disturbed the flow of fate, the stalwart butterfly that dared to resist the storm – and altered its course.

And that changed things, not for better, but for worse.

The ancient witch in the Albanian woods told him that ways of fate were fairly simple – good fortune here, bad fortune there… a balance in the cards dealt to all.

His existence upset that balance. Lily upset that balance.

The consequences – and there has to be consequences, to alleviate the unbalance – were hefty and intolerable.

Thus when all seemed helpless, when the mutual carnage eventually gave birth to slumbering horrors, they revisited the past, searching for what went wrong. Since there was no other explanation about what happened other than a mistake, a slip, something that caused things to go horribly wrong.

They found it. Or rather, Harry himself found it, in the reflection of his eyes, in the echo of his mother's screams when the Dementors came too close.

He was hesitant to approach the matter, still in denial, when the unthinkable happened.

He lost his … frenemy? lover? He still doesn't know what to call him, but he was something _true_ for Harry. Something wonderful, and that was what mattered most.

He had nothing to lose after that. Nothing tangible, at least.

So it was after what came to be called the Massacre of Hogwarts, that he gathered what remained of his allies, and parted with his briefly held secret.

They were – understandably – furious.

The were empathetic enough for the thought of sacrificing everything for loved ones, but Lily's selfishness was too much for the rest of the world.

The Wizarding world decided to make a martyr of him again, a savior willing to commit matricide for their salvation.

Some would call it unfair, others would say it's justice.

Harry would say it's fate, no matter how much he hates the word.

Lily defied fate, her son would bow down before it.

That being said, he still could not find his mu—Lily. His first destination was her childhood house in Cokeworth, then her girlfriends' ones all over Britain, he dared to temper with wards in the Potter's Manor, they allowed him entry because he was clearly a Potter, but they still bore down on him in obvious disapproval until he finally erased his magical signature from the Manor and left.

He even went to Spinner's End, thinking that perhaps she'd somehow visit Snape despite their conflict, but to no avail.

It was as if she was aware she was being hunted.

But Harry was nothing short of relentless.

Two weeks passed.

Two long, slow weeks filled with nothing but frantic pursuit.

He was vaguely aware that he was not being subtle, and should there be anyone who knew what to look for – they would instantly find him.

A seemingly proficient wizard searching for a muggle-born, that spelled nothing but trouble.

Not that he cared, but still, there's no need to go upsetting things more than they already are.

In the end, it was thanks to Dorcas Meadowes that he found her.

He had been tailing Lily's closest friends for several days, and when on a mild Saturday the young witch visited a family-owned apothecary and asked for a package under the name of 'Doe', his hunt finally bore fruit.

In a homey cottage on the hill of a quaint village, Lily unconsciously scratched at her upturned nose, brows drawn close in concentration as she attempted to re-write a spell's formula, oblivious to the man keenly watching her from the open window.

.

.

.

* * *

**7.**

_"_ _Harry, be safe. Be strong..."_

The soft whispers were akin to a consolation, resonating in his head as he drew his wand and held it before the keyhole.

There was a rushing sound in his ears, the earth beneath him kept quivering – _his body was quivering_ – he wanted to flee, to go back, to disappear.

_"_ _Be strong..."_

He took a deep breath –

four –

three –

two –

one –

" _Bombarda_!"

The door exploded and shards of wood nicked his face, with swift steps he crossed the entrance and headed to the nearest room were he could already hear a hasty scramble, Lily undoubtedly searching for the wand she discarded due to the illusion of safety.

"Lily Evans, come out and duel me,"

Because he wanted her to actually fight for her life, not stand helplessly like she did once when Voldemort came for their lives.

She flew out of the room with a stunning spell, which he deflected with a snap of his wand, then Lily proceeded to fire a barricade of curses at him – aiming to buy time to reach the door, but the enclosed space suited him just fine so he used the small wardrobe to seal the exit, before she threw a flaming rope above his head and when he ducked it caught the wooden ceiling and rapidly consumed it.

Lily took advantage of his distraction with the falling ceiling and dashed to the window and jumped through it, but Harry was instantly at her heels.

The sky darkened, a distant rumble reached them.

They resumed their duel, though it was very apparent that he had the upper hand, for Lily was caught unaware and unprepared, and though she might be an excellent duelist, his aggression clearly unnerved her enough that she kept slipping – became more frantic and desperate, with none of the finery she was renown for.

With a roar, the sky opened.

He could almost hear the moans, the cries – _nonononononononononononono._

A gasp tore itself from Lily's throat, her hand cradling her neck as it gushed red.

Her foot slipped in the fresh mud just as he cried " _Expelliarmus_!"

A wand soared towards him- he snatched it and leveled his own at the downed … girl.

Merlin, she was so _young_.

So awfully young. And scared.

He wanted to draw her in his arms – to wipe her tears away, to comfort her, to tell her he became brave, became strong; he was safe… just like she wanted.

"My name is Harry Potter, and I'll be your killer," he told her softly, because she deserved to know.

Her eyes flew wide, her face paled -

And heady was the scent of terror—for Harry barely blinked as he pointed a steady hand at Lily Evans, uttering two damnable words, " _Avada Kedavra_."

 _Thud_.

The sound of her tiny body hitting the slippery earth.

_Thud._

The sound of her wand falling from his numb fingers.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

The sound of his heart – steady despite the atrocity he just committed.

He raised his face towards the weeping sky, and waited for the world to right itself, for the darkness to disperse, for his existence to end.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

He waited for a very long time, the cooling corpse of his mother a few feet away from him.

The rain kept falling.

Nothing happened.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> under title thingy is from A Meeting With Despair by Thomas Hardy.
> 
> bye.


End file.
